Keeping the flame alive
by janinePSA
Summary: Just a collection of short Beric&Thoros-pieces. Cause I really like the bond they seem to have in the TV show. And interesting things happening to them, obviously. I'm dancing round the slash-line with this one, cause I love slash, but I won't cross it, cause I just can't make it work out between them.
1. Friends

**You guys know I don't own anything. I'd never have the patience to write this much. :p**

**1. Friends**

The fire is cracking but I still feel clammy and hollow inside. The sixth time already. No man should live with six parts of his soul sliced away. I look at Thoros who stayed awake with me.

"We can't keep doing this." I say.

He focuses on me, looking thoughtful. "Is it our choice?" he asks.

Thoros has become quite faithful in his own way. Understandably, I guess, and still he seems to be more surprised by this than anyone else.

Of course I believe too. How could I not. If there is anything that can't fail to make you believe it's being brought back from the dead.  
But being brought back left me thinner and thinner each time and each time less interested, blunted and dull.

Whereas being the instrument of this godly intervention, being the one who initiates the coming back must be something else altogether and seems to flush him with renewed awe every time.

He must have seen the weariness on my face, how little religious arguments sway me, because his eyes grow softer and more sympathetic. "You won't have to do it alone, old friend." he assures me and I know he does not mean the resurrections, but the stretches of 'life' in between.

'Old friend' I think. Of course I am a friend and the Lord of Light knows how immeasurably old I feel. But doesn't the phrase 'old friend' usually refer to someone who has been a friend for a very long time?

Thoros and I have not been friends two years ago, before this mad war started. I had no quarrel with him, he was amiable enough, but I must confess I looked down on him a bit.  
His ridiculous clothes, his ridiculous faith that he himself never failed to mock – and when he wasn't in a tourney he was usually drunk. King Robert enjoyed him, which was no wonder since they shared some basic interests, but I would never have called him a friend.

Then again we have been friends for a lifetime, because that time back in Kings Landing surely happened in another life, long, long ago and as far away as that bloody star in the sky.

When we heard of the King's death, of the Hand's death, it seemed to be time to return to our old lives. No-one would thank us for staying and fighting on.  
But we saw how they turned the fertile Riverlands to wasteland and what they did to the people seemed even worse.

We had a long conversation that night, Thoros and I, and when morning dawned I had won a friend but sealed the fate on my old life: it would be buried for good.


	2. and Brothers

**2. and Brothers**

Beric is not meeting my eyes. Going just past my right ear his gaze has wandered to the wall, empty, tired. He draws no comfort from my words and while I know it is beyond me to comfort him, it still stings. And it scares me too, because I feel he means it.  
He mustn't give up. I know he suffers, though I have no idea how, but he mustn't give up.  
I couldn't bear it.

I wonder if he knows. If he is aware how I rush to his side every time he suffers a fatal wound, awash with panic. He mustn't die for good. I wouldn't know what to do without him.

This band of brothers, this grimly sneering lot, sneering in the face of a world full of enemies they can never dream of defeating, homeless, hopeless, but going on nevertheless, because there is nowhere else to go – they would fall apart without him.  
Sure, they call each other brothers, but Beric is the one who inspires them, who holds them together at the core. Without him, they would spiral apart.

And I – I stand a middle ground. If I'm a little more than a brother amongst brothers that is only because I'm close to Beric. Otherwise I roam the country with them, hunt with them, drink with them, laugh with them while he stays behind, waiting, gathering his strength, planing.  
And they are splendid fellows all of them.

But it is Beric who I come to talk to in the gray hours before sunlight, when my restless mind won't grant me the comfort of loosing itself in sleep. It is a time of day I never knew in my former life, a time where I used to be either drunk or snoring.  
But now these are the hours of honest, serious conversation. Something I never before shared with anyone. Talk about doubts, about hope, about the meaning of it all, even about pain and fear. Something I would never talk about with the brothers. Not seriously.

And loosing that, I could not continue this dreary charade. I could not keep doing what I do and don't see what else there is. He mustn't give up.

I don't know that I could do it anyway. Even if he convinced me to let him go. The moment he is struck I never think. I just fall down by his side, the words spilling out of me without consulting my brain. It has become an instinct by now.  
How come he has been killed 6 times already while it never once happened to me? It seems unfair.  
But then the odds are in my favour. Chances are good, that I will die – only once, but surely for all – before he one more time looses that red flame that keeps him alive.

Then no one would be there to pull him back. And we could both be at peace.


	3. Smoke

**3. Smoke**

I don't really remember the first time he brought me back.  
I mean, I know about it, but it is like some event from history I have learned about, not something I actually experienced myself.

I know what I felt back then, but I can't feel it anymore when I think back. It is a story. A story admittedly told in great detail and with intimate knowledge of the inner workings of the main character's mind, but a story nonetheless.

The story of a man who came back from the dead.  
This man, I know, felt the lance only a while after he'd been pierced, when he looked down on himself and saw the metal stick out from his body.  
From there it was mere seconds ere he found no more room in his chest to breathe, before blood came spluttering from his mouth and somehow he found himself down on the ground.

It must have been agony. But I cannot taste the blood in my mouth any more. The story tells me it was warm, thick and sickening and made the man retch helplessly.  
Quickly he went cold, his sight started to fade, the roar of battle drained away and he had just time enough to get scared to the mark of his bones before he lost consciousness.

Then there is something like dreaming, the certain knowledge there was something, something that went on happening, but what it was had later completely slipped the man's mind, not even dim outlines remaining.

The next thing he remembered clearly was a sensation of pain. Hot white pain, starting out in a place where his chest used to be and spreading through the rest of his lifeless body like molten iron poured into a casting mould.  
And when it reached the tips of his toes and fingernails, a blinding light stabbed his eyes.

And there was Thoros – look, Thoros, my friend Thoros, he's in the story, he is the stuff of legends – his face peeling only by degrees out of the white glow and when it was fully recognizable he was still as pale as the everlasting snow beyond the wall. Terrified, the man realized, he was terrified.

Thoros backed away from him in one jerky movement and the man's head, which he only now noticed had been cradled in Thoros' arms, dropped to the ground with a graceless bump. He groaned at the sharp impact and then that foreign priest was back, pulling him into his arms and saying 'Forgive me' in a shaky voice that sounded strange and bewildering to the man's ears.

And then they carried him to their hold-out. That was that. He recovered. He lived on. He died again and came back again, more often then he liked to think about.

That's the story. I know it's my story. I know I felt all that. I just can't feel it anymore. I don't seem to be able to feel anything much any more. Except exhaustion.


	4. and Fire

**4. and Fire**

I remember the first time I brought him back like it was yesterday. I don't think the memory will ever fade.

I saw him being struck, but we were in the middle of a fight with Clegane's men and I couldn't see how bad it was.  
Only when we had finally driven them off, I realized that he was gone. And I couldn't bear that. I wanted him to come back.

So I said the words. I didn't mean much by it, didn't harbour any hopes. I had seen enough men die to know that once they were dead, they didn't come back to life.  
Usually.

It was a childish impulse and even while I said the words I thought that the others must surely think me mad. But I couldn't stop myself. I said the words. Bring him back!

I wanted to cry out when suddenly my vision clouded, allowing me to see only through a violet blurry haze, but the breath seemed drawn from my lungs.  
The next moment it felt like my whole body was on fire, burning without ever consuming the flesh. And slowly but steadily that fire seemed to pour into Beric who I was holding in my arms.

It could not have lasted more than seconds, but I knew. Immediately I knew. I might have been the most useless priest ever to be initiated into R'hllor's services but even I recognized it, when my God worked through me. And it put a proper holy terror in my chest.

When it was over, I realized that the gaze, that just a few moments ago had been staring blank and dead into nothing, started to focus on me.  
And I jumped as if it was the Great Other in my lap.

Beric's head hit the ground and the painful moan he gave at that was as human as the blood on my hands and the sweat on my brow. Feeling very guilty for my ungentle impulse, I quickly pulled him back towards me.

The others stood in silent shock, unable to register what had happened here.  
And dammed if I could, but if there was anything I learned in my life, it was pretending to know all about the mysterious ways of the Red God.  
"Don't stand there, you idiots!" I shouted. "Help me take him back."

And so we did. And so he lived. And to this day I still don't understand it.

But I can feel the fire burn right through me again, every time I try to think about it.

Often I dream about that day and wake up sweating and shivering. The look in those newly re-lighted eyes is enough to frighten my heartbeat into a stop every time.

But worse are the dreams when it doesn't work. When I say the words and the eyes stay dull and dead.  
And the freezing loss that fills me, makes me long for holy fire.


	5. Wusses

**5. Wusses**

While I'm still blocking a heavy stroke from the man in front of me, I hear Alan shouting: "Watch out behind you!". But before I even manage to turn, a painful impact knocks the right leg from under me.  
I tumble down, biting my lip as the blood splutters from the gaping dirty-red gash in my thigh. Catching my breath I try to get a good grip on my sword again, to push it upwards at the attacker, but already the next blow goes down on my head and all I can think, in those short seconds is: 'No. I take it back. I don't want to die.'  
And then the world goes black.

* * *

The next thing I realize is lying down in the dark somewhere. It's cozy in the darkness. I feel warm and a little dizzy and far too lazy to open my eyes right now, far too lazy to think about where I am, when I am, if it is maybe time to get up. Sluggishly I let go of the already dim strands of consciousness I had just grasped and drift off into the calm muggy gloom again.

* * *

Suddenly there is pain. It starts out low and unintrusive but quickly gains momentum and pulls my sleepy mind harshly to a sharp-edged and far too bright morning.

Searching for the source of the pain my eyes fall on Beric, struggling with a bandage on my thigh that seems to have glued itself to my body by soaking up a great bowl of blood and pus. At least that is what it feels like. I know the feeling.  
Groaning I let my head settle back down on the smelly fabric that has been placed under it in lieu of cushioning.  
"Don't be prudent." I mumble, closing my eyes. "It just hurts more the longer it takes."

The response to this is a sudden sharp burning in my leg, that makes my upper body snap upright despite myself. "Fuck me." I breathe, as I once more ease myself down on the rugs.

Through the pink-dotted fog surrounding my head comes Beric's voice, sceptical, worried. "This doesn't look good. Does it hurt when I press here?"

The dots explode into a screaming pink supernova and I'm surprised to find myself howling. But then howling is no prerogative of wolfs. I can howl, if I want to. "Don't do that." I mutter breathlessly as the waves of pain ebb out.

"It's completely infected." Beric informs me, as if I couldn't guess. "What do I do? Cut it open?"  
I haven't had much of a healer's training, but more then anyone else in the brotherhood. So I'm the local authority on medical questions. Right now, that does not make me feel very confident. Why can't all health issues be solved by asking the God to fix it? That seems to be working more reliably than anything else I've ever tried. Maybe I should just put my faith in the hands of God then. "Burn it out." I suggest. "Just pour some rum on and put a torch to it."

I can hear in Beric's voice that he thinks I'm probably not in the right state of mind to make surgical decisions right now: "I don't think I want to try that."

"Don't worry." I try to convince him. "It will work out all right. The Red God loves you. You're one of his blessed, kissed by fire. Lucky. I used to dye my hair as an acolyte because it was supposed to please the Lord of Light, but really I don't think it's quite the same."

"Kissed by fire?" Puzzlement and suspicion mingle in his tone. He thinks I'm raving and I shift myself to look at him when I explain: "Red-head. The God's chosen ones. He gives them his gift of fiery hair. The ladies loved it, didn't they?"

"Not that I was aware." he grins. "Though I don't recall any openly objecting." But then his face falls a little, giving over to an expression of grim self-mockery. "Won't see those days again."

I chuckle a little, making my chest burn. "Yes, that's for sure. Your days in the company of pretty women are certainly over. Now you're stuck with me."

"I should hope so." he replies, suddenly serious. "Don't you die on me."

Die? Where does the man get ideas like this? "You think I'm dying of this scratch?" I ask now starting to doubt _his_ rationality. "Ha! Wouldn't you just love that. You could show off all your scars while they put me in the ground and tell them what an unbearable wimp I was."  
I try to make my voice sound very butch as I go on, though the effect isn't quite as I hoped. "Ha, that wet priest, he scratched himself on a wild brier and then just lay there whining 'I'm gonna die, I'm gonna die.' Here, look at my scars. You think I'd die of a wound? Pah, dying's for girls. I'm not the kind of man who goes around dying on people. Not for long anywayaaaaaww!"  
Awww, pain, pain, white-hot pain. He poked my wound, that smug bastard.

"And when I tried to look at the scrape he screamed like a little girl." Beric comments dryly and there's no humour in his eyes. "I mean it. Don't you dare die. I cannot bring you back."


	6. and Healers

**6. and Healers**

He's delirious. Obviously. Putting a torch to the wound – what madness.

And I feel even more helpless, having to take care of that ugly oozing wound without his guidance. I've seen men die of less when they did not receive proper treatment.

"I'm not gonna die." he promises, suddenly docile and somehow that scares me doubly.  
The sultry feverish glow in his eyes makes me place a hand on his sweaty forehead, damp strands of hair getting caught beneath my palm.  
Just as I thought - he's burning up already. He needs no torches to be set on fire.

Well, sitting here fretting is going to be no help at all. We have no maester, we have no healer, so either I have to do something about the infection or just bandage it up again and try to drag someone here who is more versed in this kind of thing.

Ha, yes, fat chance in these parts.

I grab the knife and pull the rum bottle from it's nest behind the mossy mottled stone.  
It feels heavy enough and I hold it out to Thoros who does not seem to suspect what I resolved to do here. "Take a good draught." I advise him. "This is going to hurt."

"Now you're telling me." he scoffs but puts the flask to his lips obediently. Well, not that I ever had to ask him twice to take a drink …

"Something to bite on would come in handy." he recommends as he hands the rum back over. "I'd hate to bite my tongue off. The very thought that you might get the better of me at repartee is mortifying."

I'm not in the mood to comment on that, but he is right of course. Concerning the biting strap I mean.  
This would be easier if someone was here to help me with this. But the men are out hunting and will probably stop by some friendly ladies on the way back. If they come here at all tonight, they won't be in a state in which I'd like to trust them with aiding in surgical procedures.

After some rummaging around I find my carving knife and a jacket from which I tear a thin leather strap. I pull the knife free and proffer the greasy sheath in Thoros' face.  
"Bite." I instruct and he raises an eyebrow at my monosyllabic demand but then bites down nevertheless. Then I tie the strap over it and round his head to fixate the piece in place.

"Can you breathe?" I ask him and he nods, a determined but composed look in his eyes.

He is so calm. Much calmer than I am. Completely trusting in my nursing abilities. I wish I was that confident.

Well, I'll just have to do without. Resolutely I pour the alcohol down into the chasm of damaged flesh. The leg tenses and even through the leather I hear a faint hissing, however when I meet Thoros' eyes he just nods at me encouragingly. So the next gush goes over the knife, but when I take the dripping blade towards his wound Thoros starts wriggling and uttering muffled complaints.

"Is something wrong?" I ask, but he keeps straining against the strap, shaking his head and so I untie the knot and pull the leather form his mouth.  
"Torch." He mutters feebly, running his tongue around his dry palatine. "Torch. Not the knife."

I can't believe I undid the biting piece for that. Ere he has time to protest I shove the sheath back between his teeth and fasten the strap one more time. "I'm not going to put a torch to your leg, you pigheaded fool!" I exclaim. "Now lay still, or do you want me to cut your thigh completely to tethers?"

This shuts him up, luckily, although he shoots me a thoroughly accusing look from those pools of fevered blue.

When the blade breaks the skin and yellow pus spills out, he's kicking again, but I guess he can't help it.  
At some time before I finish cleaning out the wound, he blackens out and I am eternally grateful for that.

* * *

Now that he is all bandaged up again and I have pulled the leather from his mouth, he looks almost peaceful, his muscles relaxed in unconsciousness. Only the sweat still glistening on his face gives testimony of the ordeal he was put through.

I suppose there's nothing more I can do for him at the moment. Just hope and pray that it worked, that the wound will heal now. Pray – yes, maybe I should pray.

If the Lord of Light sees fit to bring me back from the dead again and again, how much more must he be willing to do for his own priest?

Unbidden Thoros words come back to me: "I used to dye my hair. I don't think it's quite the same." Nonsense. I can't believe I am a chosen one. Kissed by fire? Lucky?

'But', I think as I look down on his still form, 'if it kissing is what it takes to pull him through I won't fall short.'  
And I can't help smiling a little when I imagine the look on his face if he knew what I'm doing, as I press my lips down on his damp forehead.


	7. Quitters

**7. Quitters**

The morning is gray, cold and wet and I feel more tired of this life than ever.  
That massacre at the Twins never leaves my head.

I guess, I had secretly hoped for the Northerners to triumph. I've always admired Ned Stark. Maybe I hoped for some kind of happy ending. Justice and peace for everyone. Something illusory like that.

But now it can only be a matter of months until the last uprisings in the Riverlands are quenched.

We keep doing what we did all along - fall on the roaming bands of soldiers who try to bring devastation where nothing much is left to devastate. Lannisters, Northmen - no big difference.

But they too will leave in the end and the emerging lords of the Riverlands, the treacherous and multitudinous Freys of the Crossing, will take it upon themselves to restore law and order. Hunt down the remaining bands of outlaws.

I can't say I could think of a better ending. I can't remember what we are fighting for anyway.

There is so much I don't remember. One of the soldiers who's throat I cut a few days ago begged me for his life. Told me, he was a vassal of House Dondarrion. That he had cheered for me when my betrothal was announced.

„Did you know I was betrothed to a Dayne girl?" I asked Thoros later.  
He examined me carefully and told me, yes, of course.  
„I can't remember." I said. „I don't remember what she looked like."  
He nodded gravely and then tried a half-hearted smile. „ But me you do remember, right?"

Of course I do. I see him every day. His face was the first thing I saw coming into this world six times in a row now. I'm sure he'd be the last thing I'd remember, when everything else was gone, chipped away by the harsh winds of death.  
But I won't let it go that far. I have to stop. Soon. The sooner the better.

I keep asking the Red God for a sign, a hint from above, every night before I fall asleep.  
But there is nothing here to see, but gray fog and murky water.

* * *

Although the brothers have seen their share of rotting bodies – more than enough to last for a lifetime – they turn away from the ugly bloated form.  
But I know my prayers have finally been answered and I can't keep my eyes off her.

* * *

„This is it." I tell him. „I've come far enough. Far too far. Today I'll die for good. Bring her back instead."  
He stares at me as if I'd asked him to take her for his wife and raise a pack of happy half-dead children. „You can't be serious!"  
„I am." I assure to his consternated face. „She should be brought back to avenge herself and her family. I feel I owe it to Lord Stark."  
He stares at me for another while and finally his voice comes flat: „You're just saying that because you want to to die."  
„That woman deserves her revenge." I insist. „And I deserve to die."**1**

Absentmindedly Thoros runs a hand through his graying hair. „Revenge?" he asks his voice sounding doubtful. „Don't you think it would be cruel to bring her back? Her husband is dead, her children are dead, her home is defeated and beset by enemies. Why would she want to wake to that again?"

He sounds agitated but I don't see his point. „To take revenge." I stagnantly repeat the obvious and Thoros falls silent.  
As he keeps on staring at me I see something shifting in his eyes. Like something had been constructed in there, carefully, but unstable and incredibly fragile. And now it slowly tumbles in on itself.

„Maybe you do deserve to die." he whispers.  
Suddenly he looks smaller. Weaker. Older.

But his voice is back with determination when he adds: „But I won't bring her back!"  
„Yes, you will." I won't back down on this. We talked about it. „You said yourself you couldn't lead the brotherhood if I was gone. She can. When she wakes, she will have the fire to continue the hunt. To bring justice to the ruthless murderers. She'll be able to do what I can't anymore. You know I'm tired. But the flame in her could fuel a new purpose for the brotherhood."

He knows I'm right, I can tell. And he still doesn't like it. I see that too.  
But I have him now.  
„Do this last thing for me." I say. And he turns his face away from me.

* * *

**1.** Sorry, couldn't resist. You know this line's not mine, right?


	8. and Monsters

**8. and Monsters**

"Do this last thing for me." he says and I don't know how to answer that.  
How can I turn down his last request? I do not have it in me to protest any longer.

He's right. We have all become tired, aimless, after the events at the the Frey Wedding.  
The brothers feel insecure and leaderless. Beric seems like a walking corpse more than ever. And I am tired too. I am so bottomlessly tired.  
So maybe I should just give in. Hand it all over. Stop carrying the weight of this impasse on my shoulders.

I look back up at Beric, who is waiting patiently. "Don't make me do this." I whisper.  
And I know I'm searching for it desperately but I think there is some understanding in his eyes, finally.

* * *

Beric is talking to the others. Telling them what he is about to do.  
Explaining who's going to be their new leader. The words barely reach my ears while I kneel beside the body that used to be Lady Catelyn.

I wonder if it is even possible to bring her back after she's been dead for such a long time. And her throat cut at that.  
Sickness swirls around in my stomach as I contemplate the torn skin of her face. The story has gone round the country: That she tore up her own face before she died. That she had just enough time to go insane before they ended her.

Seeing what the resurrections have done to Beric I wonder what it will do to an insane person.  
But maybe an insane leader is the only reasonable option in these insane days.  
The idea of giving up my own rationality seems oddly appealing right now.

Beric sits down next to me. I hadn't noticed him coming over.  
"This is it." he says again. "I thank you, for all you did. You were a true friend. The best, I think. At least I don't remember any others."  
He is tremendously solemn, but I feel like sleepwalking. Somehow can't convince my numb mind that this is serious, that this is good-bye.  
"I'm sorry." I say. "For what I did to you."  
But he knows that. I've said it before. And he nods and embraces me harshly.

"It's over now." he declares. "And if it weren't for you, I would have ended it sooner."  
He pulls back and looks at me. And while I am frantically searching my brain for something to say, he seems to remember something. A smile spreads on his face and before I know what's happening he grabs my temples and plants a firm kiss on my forehead.

I feel the strain on my lids as my eyes go wide and it hits me there – it _is_ good-bye. Forever this time. And I crush him in my arms as he did. "I'll miss you my friend." I finally manage as I release him. "Let's get it over with." he replies. "Do it. Give me the words."  
It isn't much of an order, but I obey without another look. If I look back, I might not be able to let him go.

The yellow-white skin of Lady Starks corpse looks cold and soggy as Beric leans in on her and I can't suppress a shudder as he puts his lips down onto the black swollen bags of skin the corpse is sporting.

And I am saying the words, as I've been doing so many times before. But the fire doesn't come shooting through my veins, my vision remains unimpaired.  
'Maybe it won't work.' I think to myself feeling dizzy. 'Maybe I'll be spared this.'

And then there comes an outcry from the brothers looking on.  
As I shift my gaze just for a second I have just enough time to see blood spilling from every fatal wound Beric has ever suffered before the veil of violet falls in front of my eyes.

The fire fills me, drains away towards the cold body residing next to me, but it can't seem to stay there. It is as if it leaks right out again, away into the ground. My voice starts to tremble as I repeat the words involuntarily, again and again. I don't want to keep doing this. I just want to go and mourn my friend in peace, but I cannot stop. I'm in the grip of the Red God now and he won't take no for an answer.

When finally the lids on the corpse move, the eyes hidden underneath look still more dead than alive.  
Nausea rises in my throat and I only now realize how strained my muscles have become as I keel over retching.

My face in the muddy dirt of the riverbank, the taste of vomit on my tongue, I find Beric's face swim to focus in my field of vision. Sprinkled with red it doesn't look very peaceful to me. Just very dead and slightly grimacing.

And then a voice reaches my ears, a voice that sounds like death and rot and everlasting cold and I squeeze my eyes shut in horror.


End file.
